Salazar Slytherin and the First Wizengamot
by Gaius Verres
Summary: Viking leader Jarl Slaethyr, one day to be known as Slytherin, return from exile to find Britain at war as the newly formed Kingdom of England tries to assert it's dominance of the bordering peoples and the magical community. The spread of the Christian religion is also leading to increasing tension between the faithful and the Wizards.
1. Prologue

**Salazzar Slytherin and the First Wizengamot**

 **Prologue**

 **Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Greenland, around 940 CE**

Slaethyr pulled his bearskin coat tighter around himself as leaned into the prow of his longship. To his north, across the foaming waves he could see the southern tip of Greenland slide past as his men pulled on the oars. Normally ships would pass through one of ports on the great island but Slaethyr's fleet had sailed in haste from the colonies of Vinalnd in the face of a large native army. The retreat was forcing him to abandon his new lands and return to a dangerous situation in Scotland.

Thirteen years earlier the King of Wessex had united the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms of East Anglia, Mercia, Northumbria and Essex into the Kingdom of England. The Christian King, Aethelstan, held influence over more than his own Kingdom and his priests travelled the length and breadth of the Island hunting Magic Folk of all races. Slaethyr was a Norseman and Jarl of Sutherland under Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney who, though Christian, still feared the power of the Old Gods and had exiled Magic users rather than killing them as the priests of the south had done.

Taking his ships Slaethyr had sailed west to Iceland, Greenland and eventually Vinland where his folk had settled ten years earlier. Though he had abandoned his new land in the face of an attack he had planned this voyage for three months, seince news had come of Aethelstan's death.

Slaethyr Sigurdsson sailed for Britain with vengeance in his heart as he voyaged to reclaim his old lands. As English control had spread into areas settled by Danes and Norsemen many pagans had fled, east and west. Combined with the spread of Christianity in the homelands the settlements of the Atlantic had swollen with Seidr and the pagan faithful.

Eight ships carrying a score of Seidr and near four hundred warriors sailed to take advantage of the King's death.

At the front of Njord's Kraken, his flagship, Slaethyr himself cut an impressive figure. His helmet hung from a strap around his neck allowing long balck hair to stream back in the wind as he gazed westward. A tall, lean man with skin tanned by the sun and the sea-winds and a grim face, his beard's grey streaks the only sign of his hundred and ten years. Piercing green eyes gazed from under bushy black eyebrows giving him a permenantly irritated look.

Slaethyr's frown relaxed a fraction is his mind slipped from these wind-battered coasts to the ragged coat he claimed and he cast his mind back to his first journey to Britain, more than a hundred years earlier . . .


	2. Chapter 1

**Salazzar Slytherin and the First Wizengamot**

 **Prologue**

 **The North Sea, 839 CE**

Lightning cut through the dusk as the Wave-breaker was battered by the sea. The crew paddled desperately northwards to clear the rocks of the distant headland that the storm was driving them onto. A mixture of Danes, Frisians and Norsemen, the crew of the Wave-breaker had been approaching Orkney to resupply on the way to Ireland when they had been swept south towards the Scottish coasts.

In the back of the ship nine year-old Slaethyr sheltered as best as he could. Despite the crews best efforts the lower part of the ship was slowly filling with water and the rocks drew forebodingly nearer. At the prow his father, Sigurd, stood. His arms were raised as his beard and hair were whipped around his face. Even over the sound of the wind and water the lilting cadence of his voice was audible. Increasingly desperate calls for the aid of Njord and the spirits of the sea.

Appearing almost slow moving a huge wave loomed over the side of the ship and the crew dropped their oars as they braced themselves for the wave. The wall of water washed over them and Slaethyr came gasping out of the icy water as it washed over them. A glance down the deck showed a handful of crew had been swept away into the sea, though his father still crouched beneath the prow.

Another flash of lightning lit the sky, revealing the glints of submerged rocks amid the white spray. Abandoning the rudder the steersman shouted towards the shipmaster.

"Sigmarr! We're to close, our best chance is to swim and hope we miss the rocks. If we're on board when she hits that lot the impact will do for most of us."

Grim-faced, the shipmaster nodded, "Grab anything that will float and leave your cloaks and boots, boys. Nothing that'll drag you down."

As men busied themselves around him Slaethyr saw his father pushing his way down the deck.

He reached Slaethyr and squatted down. We may not survive this, be brave my son, and remember one day we shall all be with your mother in Noord's Halls." His father fingers fumbled through his grey beard, upbraiding a strip of the seaweed woven with shells and fish bones. When he pulled out a few strips he held one out to his son.

"Waterweed – it will help you breathe underwater."

Taking the strip Slaethyr gummed it down and pulled of his cloak. His father leaned down, tightening the buckle on his belt and checking his knife sheath was secure. After a hug he patted Slaethyr on the shoulder and chewed his piece. Suddenly Slaethyr felt a sharp pain on the sides of his neck and then his father patted him on the back.

"Go now, and swim deep. Follow the seabed and go towards the shore."

For a moment the icy water of the sea shocked him, but surprisingly quickly he felt his body adjust and on his first attempt to draw breath he felt water enter his gills. Ignoring the odd new sensation Slaethyr angled himself down and towards the land. At first his body was tossed and turned by the waves but as he went deeper he made better progress. It took the best part of an hour for him to negotiate his way up the gradual curve of the seabed and past the wave-swept rocks to the shore. Still partially submerged at the tideline he passed out from exhaustion.

* * *

When he awoke the sky above him was clear and a cool breeze carried the cries of gulls to him. A cold sensation at his feet brought his attention to the tide lapping at his bare feet. He pushed himself up of the ground and felt the weight of his wet clothes. Slaethyr quickly pulled of his tunic, breeches and loincloth. The cloths were soaked and covered in seaweed and sand.

Wading deeper into the water he washed the worst debris off them and slung them over his shoulder. Shivering in the chill morning air he jogged up the beach to a rocky outcrop. Wincing as his bare feet slipped across the jagged rocks he climbed to a small crevice in the outcrop and crouched down. Making himself as small as he could he rolled up his loin cloth and breeches and squeezed them between his legs and chest.

When he was as comfortable as he could get against the stone he spread the tunic above him covering his head and as much of his body as possible. Using a trick learnt from seasoned sailors during the voyage across the North Sea he began to take slow deep breaths. While the tunic wasn't as effective as a sailor's oilskin cloak he soon felt the air beneath the tunic grow thicker and his body began to warm.

He stayed like that until the sun had risen almost to its peak, when he heard voices faintly on the wind. Slaethyr remained still as they drew closer and forced himself not to try and move to observe whoever it was. While he hoped for other crewmembers the voices were clear enough to make out an unknown tongue. When the voices began to move away again he counted thirty heartbeats from when they were beyond his hearing before moving with agonising slowness.

His stiff muscles protested as he slowly turned and pushed himself upwards. Blinking against the light he took a few seconds to spot two men some fifty paces from his outcrop. Both were walking away from him and all he could make out was long dark hair, matted and more unkempt than any Norseman would allow. Their clothing was obscured beneath what appeared to be long narrow cloak of checkered cloth which was woven all around their bodies.

Slaethyr waited silently until they rounded a small rocky headland further along the beach before stretching slightly. He shook loose his balled up clothes and dressed himself in the warmed, if still somewhat damp, garments. Dressed from the waist down he flinched as he wrapped the colder tunic around his shoulders.

Moving south towards the place he had seen the men he found a carved sea-man's chest. While he didn't recognise who it belonged to the decorative twisting serpents of his people's artisans were obvious. Marks around the latch and a trail in the sand showed it had been dragged from the sea.

Slaethyr frowned, if the wrecking of the Wave-breaker was known there would probably be more people coming to salvage its remains. Furthermore, he realised, if these people had been the target of Vikings in the past they would likely be hostile.

With another quick glance around to ensure he was still alone Slaethyr examined his situation. The youngest of his father's seven sons, he was the only had inherited his father's quick wit. His brothers were all tall and muscled taking after his mother's father, impressive warriors but not suited to the subtleties of the Seidr. Slaethyr alone had passed the trials and followed in Sigurd's footsteps.

It was not in his nature to charge head first into any situation and he decided to find a safe yet close location to plan his next moves. Keeping his steps as light as possible he ran inland until he reached sandy dunes topped with tough, windswept plants. Breaking a branch of the bushes he ran back down the beach along his former route and so returned to his rock.

Walking backwards Slaethyr used the branch like a broom to cover his footsteps and conceal the route back to the dune. Here he lay flat behind the plants on the crest and wormed himself into the hill-side for warmth. When the sand covered much of his body enough to keep the wind of his skin Slaethyr propped his head up on his arms and peered between the plants at the shore below.

His gaze was drawn to the chest near the water's edge. A swift inspection showed a few large pieces of wreckage, unidentifiable from this distance. Slaethyr pondered the situation. If people lived close enough to stumble on the site within a day – unless he'd been unconscious for longer – they were likely near enough to return soon with more locals to see what could be salvaged.

Craning his neck to glance inland he tried to recall what he knew of the lands he was in. The people who inhabited much of northern Britain, including the coast south of Orkney, were Scots he recalled. Their kingdom, where he supposed he now was, was Alba in the native tongue. Though the weather was milder than in his own land it was also mountainous and swept by wind and rain. Little grew though there were great forested-hills inland. Unlike the lands to the south it was considered inhospitable by settlers from his lands and their settlements were limited to ports and trading villages on the islands and occasionally the coasts.

The only coastal village he knew of for certain was in Sutherland, the northernmost tip of Britain opposite the larger Norse settlements on Orkney. Slaethyr could find it by following the coast but that route would be longer, and if this was anything like his homelands, more populated than cutting across the mountainous interior. Keeping the threat of locals in mind he resolved to wait until dark before moving.

In the meantime he began to carefully examine the shoreline below him, noting the layout of the beach and any landmarks that might be visible or easy to find after dark. Next he committed these to memory as best he could along with the position of any potential flotsam he could see.

By mid-afternoon more figures had appeared at the beach. Most seemed to be clad like the men he had seen earlier and began searching the beach. Two of them began to wander towards the centre of the beach and as they became closer their appearance caught Slaethyr's attention.

Both were clad in long, flowing robes of dark blue, the intensity of the colour indicating expensive dyes that would have marked them as important even without their other feature. As one of the men raised his hands to pull down his hood, revealing long red hair and an even longer beard that was thrown over his shoulder and tucked beneath the cloak, Slaethyr saw he held a long, gnarled staff of blackened wood.

Though he had never encountered any Slaethyr was sure these were the druids that had fought so fiercely to prevent any advances in the settlement of inland Ireland, Wales and Scotland. Druids were definitely not a sign that approaching the locals was even remotely safe.

His attention, and that of the druids, was attracted by shouting as two Scots dragged a limp body up from the shoreline.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

If you're not familiar with the time period this is set in please check out the guide/companion fic (Fractured World's Companion) which has a brief timeline of events relevant to the story line or referenced by characters as well as some important notes.


End file.
